Post by Seek on Dec 24, 2021 16:54:21 GMT 10
Title: Midwinter Offer
Rating: PG-13
For: wordy
Prompt: 5. Aniki and Rosto being bros. Platonic or otherwise.
Summary: Rosto has a job offer for Aniki.
Notes and Warnings: Shades of Kora/Aniki. References to child-killing. Otherwise, slave dealing. Could be a prelude to them leaving Scanra with Kora.
It was going to snow: the skies a leaden grey that reminded Aniki of steel blackened for night work, and there was a definite chill in the air.
“Merry Midwinter,” she muttered, nursing a bottle of mead brewed with juniper berries and spices. By all accounts, things were going well. In her line of work, it was almost always feast or famine, but Aniki had just come off a dry period with a few job offers—rusher-work, most of that, and easy enough that she’d probably find herself sleeping on the job. It’d been a while since she found herself a good sparring partner, and she was getting restless.
Still, Aniki knew better than to complain. Work was work—even better if the client paid well. And job offers meant that a few coves who knew other coves who knew a good rusher were passing her name around, and that meant the difference, sometimes, between death, being stabbed in the back, and starvation in the underworld of Hamrkeng.
She heard a tapping from the window and sighed, went over to it, hand to her sword-hilt just in case. Only so many coves crackheaded enough to try a window with a Midwinter storm looming, though, and she was proven right in her guess.
“People use the door, not the window,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Cabbage head.”
“I have to keep up my skills somehow,” Rosto said, as she scraped the window back to let him in.
“You’ll keep up your skills if you slip and fall, in this weather. Ice everywhere. What’s the job, then?”
Rosto looked at her. “Does a cove always have to drop by for work?” he wanted to know. “Maybe I was just seeing a friend for Midwinter.”
Aniki laughed. “Work first, then pleasure. It’s never just one thing with you.”
Rosto sighed and sprawled in her armchair. “I’ve been out on my feet all day and—you did order the last of the ale! Bardas said he was all sold out and I couldn’t figure out who’d done it.”
Aniki rummaged under the table and tossed him a bottle. He caught it deftly. Rosto’s reflexes had never been wanting. Knife-fighter like him needed them. Even a swordswoman like Aniki did. In this line of work, getting paid sometimes rested on the edge of a blade.
She picked up her ale again. “Bardas always makes the best brews. Pays to have a good in with him.”
“Kora, isn’t it?”
“That,” said Aniki, even though Rosto’s guess was closer to home than she would’ve let on, “Would be telling.”
“It is Kora. You’re never this evasive unless it’s her.”
“She’s not interested, cabbage head, leave off,” Aniki said, firmly. Last time they’d met, Rosto’d come on hard and Kora’d shut him down fast. You never messed around with Kora’s left hook. Aniki knew as much. Kora working magic, the blue-green light of her Gift flickering close to her skin, the sharp focus in every muscle when she threw a punch. Aniki fell in love with her right there and then.
Rosto leaned forward in his stolen chair. “As much as I like to talk about how you get with Kora,” he drawled, “You’re right. Business, then.”
Aniki waited.
“Tancred,” Rosto said. “Chief of Ullensaker District. You’re working for him.”
Aniki said, in a fair imitation of Rosto’s drawl, “Can’t expect a mot to talk about work, my lad. You know better than that.”
Rosto acknowledged the point with a nod, and spread his hands in a gesture which Aniki read correctly as concession or part apology. Rosto seldom apologised, but was serious when he did.
They both had their pride.
“I’ve a job for you,” Rosto said. He set the bottle of ale down, by the chair leg. “What would it take to convince you to take up with Astrid instead?”
Aniki narrowed her eyes. “This is about the Voss dock, isn’t it?”
Rosto smiled chidingly. “Can’t expect a cove to talk about work, my lass. You know better than that.”
It was her turn to nod. Friends were far and few between in the Rogue. But you knew which coves had your back, and which mots were as like to give you Black Hod’s kiss, from ear to ear. Which rushers were the sort to give you stone shoes to wear to Ran’s watery realm.
Rosto, for all his very many faults and vices, was the sort of cove you knew had your back, if you were working a job together. And one way or another, Aniki didn’t think he was here to stick the knife in, either way you sliced it.
“What’s your angle, then?” she asked, softly. “If I were working the Voss dock for Tancred, this isn’t the sort of thing he passes up, taking up with Astrid.”
“I need a good rusher. You’re the best. Easy on the eye and—” he started talking faster, when Aniki reached over and flicked him on the ear, “—Ow! The sort I can trust to watch my back, without worrying about some loophole or landmine of internal Rogue politics.”
That much was true. She’d thought the same herself, of him. “Besides, I wouldn’t ask you to do it for gold,” said Rosto, affronted. “Reputation is everything.” It was, especially in the Rogue. Betrayals, too, were often paid for in blood.
“Then?”
“Child-killers,” said Rosto, seriously. “Ingmar the Red has a shipment of slaves—hot cargo—that he needs disposed of.” He added, a heartbeat later, to sink the knife in, “There are children among them.”
Aniki sat there, and stared.
Child-slavers. Child-killers.
Her mind went back to Erdskegg in flames, Erdskegg burning.
Rosto knew the moment she’d made her mind up.
“I’ll make the introductions. I can’t promise that Astrid will shield you, but I’ll not let Tancred at you. I have no patience for child-killers, myself.”
Aniki weighed that. Good enough, she thought.
He knew that about her. And she expected he needed someone to watch his back, more than he’d let on. With Rosto, you always had to keep a ear out for what wasn’t being said. Cove was slippery like that, though she thought he wasn’t trying to be tricksome here.
She hooked her fingers through her sword-belt. “Just tell me what you need from me,” she said, steel in her spine.
Sometimes, you just had to pay the piper.
Rosto clapped her on the shoulder. “We’ll work it out,” he said, his voice a fierce promise.
They drank to that.
Rating: PG-13
For: wordy
Prompt: 5. Aniki and Rosto being bros. Platonic or otherwise.
Summary: Rosto has a job offer for Aniki.
Notes and Warnings: Shades of Kora/Aniki. References to child-killing. Otherwise, slave dealing. Could be a prelude to them leaving Scanra with Kora.
It was going to snow: the skies a leaden grey that reminded Aniki of steel blackened for night work, and there was a definite chill in the air.
“Merry Midwinter,” she muttered, nursing a bottle of mead brewed with juniper berries and spices. By all accounts, things were going well. In her line of work, it was almost always feast or famine, but Aniki had just come off a dry period with a few job offers—rusher-work, most of that, and easy enough that she’d probably find herself sleeping on the job. It’d been a while since she found herself a good sparring partner, and she was getting restless.
Still, Aniki knew better than to complain. Work was work—even better if the client paid well. And job offers meant that a few coves who knew other coves who knew a good rusher were passing her name around, and that meant the difference, sometimes, between death, being stabbed in the back, and starvation in the underworld of Hamrkeng.
She heard a tapping from the window and sighed, went over to it, hand to her sword-hilt just in case. Only so many coves crackheaded enough to try a window with a Midwinter storm looming, though, and she was proven right in her guess.
“People use the door, not the window,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Cabbage head.”
“I have to keep up my skills somehow,” Rosto said, as she scraped the window back to let him in.
“You’ll keep up your skills if you slip and fall, in this weather. Ice everywhere. What’s the job, then?”
Rosto looked at her. “Does a cove always have to drop by for work?” he wanted to know. “Maybe I was just seeing a friend for Midwinter.”
Aniki laughed. “Work first, then pleasure. It’s never just one thing with you.”
Rosto sighed and sprawled in her armchair. “I’ve been out on my feet all day and—you did order the last of the ale! Bardas said he was all sold out and I couldn’t figure out who’d done it.”
Aniki rummaged under the table and tossed him a bottle. He caught it deftly. Rosto’s reflexes had never been wanting. Knife-fighter like him needed them. Even a swordswoman like Aniki did. In this line of work, getting paid sometimes rested on the edge of a blade.
She picked up her ale again. “Bardas always makes the best brews. Pays to have a good in with him.”
“Kora, isn’t it?”
“That,” said Aniki, even though Rosto’s guess was closer to home than she would’ve let on, “Would be telling.”
“It is Kora. You’re never this evasive unless it’s her.”
“She’s not interested, cabbage head, leave off,” Aniki said, firmly. Last time they’d met, Rosto’d come on hard and Kora’d shut him down fast. You never messed around with Kora’s left hook. Aniki knew as much. Kora working magic, the blue-green light of her Gift flickering close to her skin, the sharp focus in every muscle when she threw a punch. Aniki fell in love with her right there and then.
Rosto leaned forward in his stolen chair. “As much as I like to talk about how you get with Kora,” he drawled, “You’re right. Business, then.”
Aniki waited.
“Tancred,” Rosto said. “Chief of Ullensaker District. You’re working for him.”
Aniki said, in a fair imitation of Rosto’s drawl, “Can’t expect a mot to talk about work, my lad. You know better than that.”
Rosto acknowledged the point with a nod, and spread his hands in a gesture which Aniki read correctly as concession or part apology. Rosto seldom apologised, but was serious when he did.
They both had their pride.
“I’ve a job for you,” Rosto said. He set the bottle of ale down, by the chair leg. “What would it take to convince you to take up with Astrid instead?”
Aniki narrowed her eyes. “This is about the Voss dock, isn’t it?”
Rosto smiled chidingly. “Can’t expect a cove to talk about work, my lass. You know better than that.”
It was her turn to nod. Friends were far and few between in the Rogue. But you knew which coves had your back, and which mots were as like to give you Black Hod’s kiss, from ear to ear. Which rushers were the sort to give you stone shoes to wear to Ran’s watery realm.
Rosto, for all his very many faults and vices, was the sort of cove you knew had your back, if you were working a job together. And one way or another, Aniki didn’t think he was here to stick the knife in, either way you sliced it.
“What’s your angle, then?” she asked, softly. “If I were working the Voss dock for Tancred, this isn’t the sort of thing he passes up, taking up with Astrid.”
“I need a good rusher. You’re the best. Easy on the eye and—” he started talking faster, when Aniki reached over and flicked him on the ear, “—Ow! The sort I can trust to watch my back, without worrying about some loophole or landmine of internal Rogue politics.”
That much was true. She’d thought the same herself, of him. “Besides, I wouldn’t ask you to do it for gold,” said Rosto, affronted. “Reputation is everything.” It was, especially in the Rogue. Betrayals, too, were often paid for in blood.
“Then?”
“Child-killers,” said Rosto, seriously. “Ingmar the Red has a shipment of slaves—hot cargo—that he needs disposed of.” He added, a heartbeat later, to sink the knife in, “There are children among them.”
Aniki sat there, and stared.
Child-slavers. Child-killers.
Her mind went back to Erdskegg in flames, Erdskegg burning.
Rosto knew the moment she’d made her mind up.
“I’ll make the introductions. I can’t promise that Astrid will shield you, but I’ll not let Tancred at you. I have no patience for child-killers, myself.”
Aniki weighed that. Good enough, she thought.
He knew that about her. And she expected he needed someone to watch his back, more than he’d let on. With Rosto, you always had to keep a ear out for what wasn’t being said. Cove was slippery like that, though she thought he wasn’t trying to be tricksome here.
She hooked her fingers through her sword-belt. “Just tell me what you need from me,” she said, steel in her spine.
Sometimes, you just had to pay the piper.
Rosto clapped her on the shoulder. “We’ll work it out,” he said, his voice a fierce promise.
They drank to that.